


The Brilliant Beast of Baker Street

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Analingus, Everybody has a good time, Fellatio, Growling Sherlock, John Watson's tiny peen, John takes it and he likes it, Lube, M/M, No Mary, Nonaconda, Sherlock growls, Size Difference, canon divergence from TRF forward, cum, face fucking, here be sex y'all, if you don't you know what to do, in case the preceding tags failed to warn you, it gets kinda dirty? but like I've written diritier, playing into all those tropes about Sherlock's hands voice etc, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: When Moriarity's plots and schemes end with him dead on the pavement in front of Barts, instead of Sherlock, the two men take the opportunity to reach for what they almost lost. But John has a secret and he's afraid he'll lose Sherlock when he finds out just how little heat John is packing. Sherlock Holmes, however, has never done things like anyone else.
Relationships: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84
Collections: SmallDickFics





	The Brilliant Beast of Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> I had such a blast with my first fic for Small Dick Fics (all hail the internets!) that I wrote another. Really, it wrote itself. Such fun. Hope y'all enjoy. If ya don't, shove off for distant shores, mates. Plenty o' other fics out there.

His teenage years were...rough. Eventually John learned to treat it with light humour if the situation warranted. He became an expert at oral sex. He delivered orgasms that would have blown the socks off of his partners--had they been wearing any. As he approached his thirties, John became less defensive, and more comfortable with his small dick. Life had other priorities, and as a doctor and a soldier, he’d learned what took precedence. Still, it stung, that first moment when he undressed in front of a lover.

Almost from the first, Sherlock Holmes had dazzled and tempted John, and he had made a subtle effort to feel him out on the subject of orientation and interest, only to be shot down quickly. So quickly, and awkwardly, that, upon learning just how stupendous the man’s deduction skills were, John was left with the dreadful feeling that he’d been tried and found wanting. All before he could ever prove his prowess as a lover. Thereafter, John was defensive in his disinterest in Sherlock, the possibility of their being a couple, or the remotest chance that he might be gay.

After that he was almost aggressive in his pursuit of women, in a way he hadn't been since his randy, feckless youth. 

Things probably would have stayed like that indefinitely. But when Sherlock had foiled Moriarity’s plans, the two of them stood in the forecourt of St Barts, John unaware that something was about to change. Watching as Lestrade directed the crime scene investigators milling about Moriarity’s corpse bleeding out on the cobblestones, he sighed in thanks. “Thank God he didn’t succeed in taking you over with him,” John breathed for the twelfth time. He’d arrived at the hospital in time to look up at a distant shout and see Moriarity and Sherlock struggling on the edge of the roof.

“Thank God that Mycroft got to his snipers in time,” Sherlock said quietly now. His hand took John’s as naturally as if they’d always done it. John looked at him in naked surprise, but Sherlock was studying Moriarity’s still form. John’s heart began to beat a fast, hopeful rhythm as Sherlock went on, “I couldn’t have borne losing you, John.”

He turned his head then and met John’s eyes, “You’re the most important person in my life. Losing you would ruin me.”

Shock and longing had stolen John’s breath. He groped for words, then finally squeezed Sherlock’s hand, “You don’t have to worry about that, nothing and no one is taking me from you.”

It wasn’t until the next day, when they were sprawled around the flat, having a quiet, rainy day in, that Sherlock brought it up again. Out of the blue, he said, “Someone could take you from me John.”

John looked up in surprise from his laptop, where he’d been struggling to put the whole business of Moriarity into words, while not revealing anything too sensitive. “Who?”

“Some woman...or some man.” Sherlock regarded him over his clasped hands, “You once asked me if I had a girlfriend or boyfriend and I told you--quite rightly--that I’m not interested in that sort of thing. I tried it in my youth, and while it was diverting enough, I never found it worth the emotional entanglements or the inevitable pain.”

John stared at him in surprise that he was bringing this up. Relationships really never  _ had  _ been Sherlock's thing. Ateast, not as long as John had known him. 

“I’ve reassessed my opinion, however,” Sherlock continued, as if discussing something quite unrelated to this frankly amazing conversation. “An emotional entanglement with you would be worth any pain.”

John breathed his name, not ashamed at the trembling break in his voice. The hot prick of tears at his eyes made him blink, and when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed. It wasn’t a dream. “Sherlock,” he tried, had to clear his throat and start over. He found himself smiling broadly, and his heart lifted at the answering smile. “I’d never hurt you...God, are you sure you want this?” Me, he meant, but didn’t say.

“Very sure, John. That is, if you still want me?”

In answer, John rose to his feet, Sherlock mirroring the action, and they met in the intimate space between their chairs. Arms closing around one another, they took a moment to find the perfect hold, and then Sherlock lowered his head, and John lifted his, and they kissed, softly and sweetly. Happiness, like sun-warmed honey, oozed through John, and his embrace tightened. Sherlock’s arms closed around him a fraction more, and he dipped his head to whisper in John's ear, “John Watson, at last.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ Several weeks later… _

  
  


John had never been much of a coward. Even before the Army, he’d been a bare-knuckle brawler who never backed down from a challenge. But since he and Sherlock had admitted their feelings for one another and embarked on a relationship, he found himself shying away from intimacy. They spent a good deal of time touching one another casually, or watching telly while entangled on the sofa, or kissing lazily while sprawled out on that same piece of furniture. But so far no clothing had been removed aside from shirts, and nothing had occurred below the waist that didn’t involve frustrated (clothed) frotting while devouring one another’s mouths.

John avoided a few awkward conversations with the tried and true expediency of fellatio, but this was Sherlock. That would only buy him so much distraction. 

He knew that eventually the moment would come when he would have to reveal himself to Sherlock’s keen eyes, but he was dreading it. Knowing that his boyfriend would have long-ago deduced his lack of size didn’t mean John was eager for that deduction to be proven true. So he called a halt to things when they became too heated, or diverted Sherlock’s attempts to loosen his flies by dropping to his knees and loving him with his mouth. John was quite good, a point on which he prided himself, and Sherlock certainly hadn’t complained--except for the fact that he wasn’t allowed to reciprocate.

John knew that he could get away with, “No need, handsome,” or “I just want to make you feel good,” for only so long. The time of reckoning was coming.

It came, in fact, that very night. Sherlock announced that they were dining at Angelo’s and once there he set about charming John with his not-inconsiderable flirtatious ability. The teasing touches of his hand on John’s hand, wrist, arm, knee, neck were maddeningly arousing. By the time they’d finished dinner, dessert and two bottles of wine, John’s head was swimming and he was hard in his trousers. He was also just inebriated enough that there was a vague, pleasant haze clouding his worry.

Instead of heading for the sofa, or his chair, Sherlock shed his Belstaff and hung it up, taking John’s coat and doing the same. He took his hand and led him toward his bedroom, “Come, John.”

“Uhhh,” John remarked brightly.

Sherlock didn’t stop, but pulled gently on John’s hand and once in the bedroom closed the door. He put his hands on John’s shoulders and regarded him with soft eyes, “John Watson, the time has come to either have sex or explain yourself.”

“I…”

“I’ve deduced,” Sherlock said, for which John was sort of grateful, as he honestly wasn’t sure how to begin, “that the problem lies in one of two areas. One is that you don’t find me sexually attractive, but given your enthusiasm and the signs of desire you exhibit, that seems unlikely. The other is that society has instilled in you a sense of self-consciousness about the size of your penis.”

Well what in the hell does a man say to that?! “I’m...not big.” The truth, apparently.

“I know,” Sherlock replied calmly.

John blew out a breath and steeled himself to tell the entire, ugly truth, “Not average or just under average, Sherlock.  _ Small.” _

Sherlock managed to convey both exasperation and incredible tenderness in one look. “I know, John.”

John’s face was hot, and he felt a swell of humiliation. “Of course you do,” he said bitterly, “I can usually hide it until I’m ready to tell a new partner, but of-bloody-course you already know how little I am down to the last centimeter.” He jerked at his belt. “Here, look at the goddamned thing, fulfill your curiosity! Confirm that you were right!”

He had his trousers and pants down before Sherlock could act, and raised his shirt-tail to expose himself fully to Sherlock’s gaze. John’s jaw was set pugnaciously, and his gaze was challenging. Sherlock didn’t look away from John’s eyes. Reaching out, he tugged at John’s hand until he let go of his shirt. Sherlock brought John’s hands up between them and gave him a half-smile, one side of his mouth lifted, “John, do you truly think I’m going to react like all those other idiots?”

It was that word, more than anything, which deflated the swelling anger, humiliation and sorrow building in John’s chest. He breathed in, breathed out, and then laughed a little. “No. I don’t suppose you’ll ever react like anyone else.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, pressing a soft kiss to John’s knuckles, “Better. Don’t ever think that I care, John, because I do not. Frankly, if you had nothing at all, or a terrifyingly massive manhood, or female parts, or something I can’t quite picture, I wouldn’t care. That isn't what’s important. _ You _ are, John Watson, you are.” At last his his dipped below John’s face and he took him in. John wasn’t a bundle of nerves, but still his stomach quivered with unhappiness. No matter what Sherlock said, he would be disappointed.

Taking him in with his keen, searching eyes, Sherlock finally smiled. It was a smug, happy, cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. “Oh John, you might not boast a fearsome size, but you are the image of perfection.”

“What?” John laughed, a bit taken aback.

Sherlock’s eyes were bright, and reached out to run a fingertip softly over John’s foreskin, “I’ve never seen a more perfectly formed penis.”   
  


John might have said ‘just how many of those have you seen?’ or ‘ha ha, laugh it up,’ or ‘fuck off’ or any number of things. But he could feel the sincerity in Sherlock’s voice. It might be small, but to Sherlock, John’s dick was perfect. John tangled his fingers with Sherlock’s and stepped in for a kiss. “Take me to bed, Sherlock.”

“Love to,” Sherlock murmured against his lips.

After that it was easy, natural. John finished undressing, and lounged on the bed, waiting for Sherlock, who folded and hung his clothes neatly as he disrobed. John grinned at him, “Explain to me how the same man who indexes his socks and has a little doodad for his jacket and trousers--”

“A valet stand, you heathen.”

“--also leaves eyeballs in the tea kettle?”

“I am a man of parts,” Sherlock said with dignity, and threw his balled up sock at John, who dodged it, laughing. They laughed a lot, easy, friendly, familiar laugher. Sherlock turned out to be rather ticklish, and that started them off. For some reason John began to talk in a terrible French accent, descending more and more into sounding like Pepe Le Pew. It filled them both with giddy hilarity. John had never felt so carefree and happy in bed with someone. 

“Now,” Sherlock said, when they’d finally stopped giggling and tusseling. “Correct me if my deductions are wrong, but you prefer to bottom, do you not?”

“Yeah.” Then boldly John added to that bland admission, “Fucking love it, actually.”   
  
“Excellent,” Sherlock purred, walking his fingers up John’s thigh. “I’m quite looking forward to eating you out and then having you ride my cock, John.” He dropped a kiss to John’s thigh, following the trail his fingers had blazed. "But I want my first taste of you to be this trembling drop of desire...right...here…” So saying, he swirled his tongue delicately around the head of John’s dick, then sucked, sliding John’s foreskin down with his lips.

John gasped sharply, hips rising, and buried his fingers in Sherlock’s luscious curls as his lover stroked his shaft and balls with questing fingers. His tongue was laving at John’s frenulum, driving him mad. He managed to gasp out, “Harder!” and groaned from the bottom of his chest when Sherlock happily complied. Soon Sherlock had kissed his way down John’s ball sac to his perineum, and without ceremony he hoisted John’s legs over his shoulders and hauled his arse up in the cradle of his large palms. 

Wordlessly, John cried out, clinging to the headboard for an anchor, as he rode the swells of lust swamping him. Sherlock’s tongue was long, strong, and clever, and he used it to keen advantage as he rimmed John as he’d never been rimmed before. Pulling back only to slick his fingers with lube fetched from the bedside table, Sherlock, mouth shining obscenely, grinned at him, “If I get you off now can you come again _ quite soon,  _ John?”

He’d do anything to obey that deep, velvet voice, hoarsened by endless analingus. “Fuck yes,” John gasped shakily, “don’t stop!”

Sherlock didn’t, only dove back to circle with his tireless tongue the stretched-thin skin around the fingers soon sliding deep inside John. He was patient and skilled, and once John was ready, the brush of Sherlock’s finger tip against his prostate made John cry out, pushing his hips down on Sherlock’s fingers, seeking more. Sherlock was only too happy to oblige

John loosed one too-tight grip from where he clung to the headboard, and clamped his hand over his mouth, muffling his shout, teeth closing down on the heel of his hand as he came. Drifting pleasantly, seemingly boneless, in the afterglow, John was aware of Sherlock cleaning his belly, before he murmured that he’d be right back. Following the sound of gargling and spitting, Sherlock was back, smelling of mint; he slid into bed to wind his long limbs around John’s sweaty, too-warm, all-too-happy form. He roused himself enough to kiss Sherlock, burying a hand in his sweat-dampened curls. “Christ,” he sighed at last, letting his head drop back on the pillow, “thank you.”

Sherlock’s deep laugh shook the bed, “The pleasure, John, is mine, I assure you.”

Recovering, John moved to straddle Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock laid back against the pillow, folding his arms behind his head, raising a challenging brow at John. “Well hello.”

“Hullo,” John said, friendly. He grinned sunnily, full of boundless happiness. Sherlock had given him some of the most stupendous sex of his life and they weren’t done yet. Not one word or glance about his tiny dick. In fact, Sherlock had worshipped it as if it were quite perfect as it was. He slid his palms up Sherlock’s thighs, brushed his fingers over the sparse hair of his groin. “Do you shave?”

“Mm. I dislike too much body hair on myself.” Before John could open his mouth, “Not on you, John. You are, as in all things, quite perfect.”

His face was hot. “Shuddup.”

“Shan’t.” Sherlock looked unbearably smug. John liked it more than was probably healthy or wise.

“Mouthy git,” John huffed, playful, and they grinned at one another. He was glad they hadn’t lost this--their banter and ability to laugh at themselves and one another. John shifted, leaning over to lick lightly at Sherlock’s nipple. He smiled at the faint hiss, did it again. Sherlock hummed and smoothed his hands up John’s back. “Like that?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Good, I’ll do the other.” John turned his attention to Sherlock’s left nipple and enjoyed the sensation of it tightening against his tongue. He stroked Sherlock's sides, his belly, trailed fingers around his groin, not quite approaching Sherlock’s eager erection.

“Tease,” Sherlock groaned, head rolling against the pillow. His hands tightened on John’s hips, “I see I am to be repaid in my own coin.”

“Yup,” John said, popping the ‘p’ with a cheeky grin.

Eventually, however, he took pity on Sherlock--and his own eagerness--and took him in his mouth, slicking Sherlock’s length with his tongue before he swallowed him down as far as he could comfortably go. He’d made himself gag a time or two in the past, determined to prove something--to himself, to the other man--attempting to take a cock to the root. Now, with time and wisdom, he enjoyed fellatio, and didn’t make a tiring challenge out of it. Sherlock approved vocally of John’s expertise and skill, but eventually pulled him off. “If I’m to last any time at all inside you, you’d best stop that.”

“Fair enough,” John said agreeably, sleeking lube down Sherlock’s length as Sherlock dipped lube coated fingers inside him. He shuddered, “Some time though,” he managed, smirking, “I’m gonna see how many times I can make you come with just my mouth.”

“I look forward to that,” Sherlock husked, eyes brilliant with lust. He steadied John as he knelt over him, then they both fumbled to line him up. The head of his dick nudging at John’s rim, Sherlock pulled him in for a kiss. “But not nearly as much as this, John.”

He slid inside, just a fraction, then, drinking in John’s excited gasp, another inch. “Christ, John,” he groaned, fingers shaking on John’s hips, “I might not make it long.”

“Talk about long,” John teased breathlessly, then sank all the way down before Sherlock could stop him. They both cried out, Sherlock from shocked pleasure, John from pained pleasure. Sherlock’s voice shook slightly as he asked if John were alright. “Mmm,” John responded, rather than answer. In truth it stung just a little, having been some time, but it was a delicious discomfort, and he was already loosening and eager to move. “Oh God...yeah, fuck, Sherlock,” he dropped his head forward and smiled at him, “I’ve been dreaming about this. Fuck me…”

Sherlock growled, low and deep, his hands spasming on John’s waist, and then he gripped him hard and began to thrust, pushing up from the bed, actually lifting John a little from the mattress with his fervor. So much for a slow ride on his cock, thought John gleefully, and dug his fingernails into Sherlock’s pecs. He fought back, giving as good as he got. The bedframe smacked the wall, the springs protested loudly, and John actually grunted a time or two from the fierceness of Sherlock fucking into him. His cock was cooperating with enthusiasm, rising, as it were, to the occasion, and John reached to stroke himself.

Sherlock pushed his hand aside, snarling possessively, curling his palm hotly around John, who gasped. He stared at his flushed dick disappearing inside Sherlock’s big hand, fucking in and out. It was almost overwhelming being consumed like that. Anyone else it might have made him feel inadequate, but because it was Sherlock, he felt cherished and taken care of. Besides, Sherlock was as hot and hard as new forged steel inside him, and John knew he loved it too. 

“John,” Sherlock bit out, scowling, sweating, nearly levitating them both off of the bed, “I’m going to come inside you and then I want to fuck you with my fingers while you fuck my face.”

John choked back a gasping curse, nearly going off then and there. Arching into Sherlock’s palm, he rocked with his thrusts, the air punched out of his lungs as Sherlock fucked him hard and almost furious. John yelped, hanging on, torn between sensations, and when Sherlock shouted down the roof and came inside him in a torrent. His hand fell away and Sherlock lay gasping. John stilled the motion of his hips and soaked in the sight of his favourite person on earth, completely at peace and happy for once in his often hectic life. He smiled with a tenderness at odds with the room stinking of sex and still echoing with Sherlock’s shouts, and slipped from Sherlock’s lap.

Protesting wordlessly, Sherlock roused himself to reach for John, who shushed him. “I’ve got this,” John promised, crawling up so he straddled Sherlock’s shoulders. “Here love, fancy another taste?”

Humming hungrily, Sherlock shoved a pillow under his head so he wouldn’t have to strain his neck, and closed his lips voraciously around John’s dick. “Hum again,” John demanded, guiding one of Sherlock’s hands to his arse and hissing in delight when Sherlock unceremoniously breached him with two fingers. They squelched filthily in the lube and cum dribbling from his arse, and both men groaned.

“Oh God,” John moaned, “that’s even better than humming.”

“I’ll hum for you, gorgeous,” Sherlock promised, a glint in his eye. “Keep feeding me that delicious cock.”

John complied eagerly, rocking enthusiastically into Sherlock’s mouth, gasping and moaning as Sherlock fucked him gently with his fingers, curling and pressing until John was writhing on his face. A helpless, staccato groan gripped him, and John clutched the headboard and pressed forward until his pubic bone was pressing against Sherlock’s jaw and his boyfriend hummed deep and low. Doing some shouting of his own, John spilled into Sherlock’s mouth, shuddering long and helplessly. Sherlock softened his tongue and finally pulled back, licking his lips, which glistened with spit and cum. “God, I love you, John Watson, you brilliant beast.”

And for once in his life, John really did feel like a beast.


End file.
